Candlemas: Jan 29

 Candlemas 2023

 

Malachi 3.1-5, Luke 2.22-40

 

He was just one small child; how many other babies might there have been in the Temple on the day that Mary and Joseph arrived with Jesus six weeks after his birth? Probably many. My experience of the old city of Jerusalem was of a bustling, crowded place, with narrow streets packed with traders and travellers and pilgrims, and I am sure that’s how it was in the time of Jesus too, a place where people were coming and going constantly, and mostly anonymously, with families of all shapes and sizes in tow.

 

There were no angels singing, no fanfare playing for this particular child, no unearthly glow that would have signalled that he was anything out of the ordinary. His parents weren’t wealthy. We know that because the sacrifice they brought, of two pigeons, was the budget version, a concession in the law for those who couldn’t afford the standard offering of a lamb.

 

And the only two people there who acclaimed him, who recognised him as the Light of the World, were probably equally insignificant in the eyes of the Temple authorities. Simeon and Anna seem to have been regulars in the Temple, but they didn’t have a particular role, just two elderly people who hung about praying and talking. Anna had lived as a widow for many years, and according to the Gospel she never left the Temple. I wonder if she had anywhere else to go, any family to support her. Simeon is described as righteous and devout but he wasn’t a priest or a Levite, a scribe or a Pharisee. If he had been, Luke would have told us.  Whatever he had done with his life it seemed now to be drawing to a close. Simeon and Anna weren’t among the movers and shakers in the world they lived in, if they ever had been, and I’m sure there were those who thought they were well past their sell-by date, maybe a bit eccentric, religious obsessives, easy to write off. 

 

Being written off and ignored is something that many people encounter at some point in their lives. It’s easy for those with power to assume that some people are too young, too old, too poor, too disabled, from the “wrong” background, of the “wrong” nationality or the “wrong” gender to have anything to say that’s worth hearing, to have lives that are worth noticing, and the people we meet in this story are among that number. A poor, ordinary couple, a baby that hasn’t even learned to talk yet – what do they matter? And Simeon and Anna’s lives are nearly over. They are part of the past, not the future. Why should their opinions count for anything?  

 

This may be a story that’s 2000 years old, but it could also have happened yesterday. This week there have been two shocking news stories which ought to have been huge, but which, after a brief moment in the headlines seem to have sunk without trace.

 

It was announced earlier this week that nearly 200 young people have gone missing from places where they ought to have been safe over the last 18 months. Usually when one child goes missing, there are tearful press conferences with their anxious parents, and whole neighbourhoods offering to help with the search, t-shirts printed, and flyers plastered on lamp-posts.  Why the lack of interest in this case? It’s because they were unaccompanied refugees - asylum seekers under the age of 18 who had arrived in this country without parents. They’d been housed in hotels – often with no real regard for the normal safeguarding practices - but many had subsequently vanished, in many cases apparently just picked up by traffickers right outside the places they were staying. Around half have been traced, but many haven’t and have disappeared into the shadowy world of modern slavery – cannabis farms, car washes, sex work…. “So what?” say some commentators, “most of them were 16 and 17 year olds, some were probably over 18 but had lied about their age to avoid being deported”. Does that make it any better? How would we feel if these were our children, or children we knew, or even ourselves at that age?  Many were Albanians, smuggled in by people traffickers, lured by the promise of easy money and a comfortable life, but finding that the reality was very different. All teenagers do things that are naïve, trusting people they shouldn’t, making decisions they regret. Slavery is a heavy price to pay for that, and not one we would countenance for children we knew and loved. The traffickers targeted young people, vulnerable because they were poor and far from home because they thought no one would notice or miss them. And it seems they were right.  Their story was told, but then news cycle rolled on, people seemed to shrug their shoulders and turn away. One MP said, dismissively, “they shouldn’t have come here illegally then”.

 

The other story which I think should have made a much bigger impact than it has done was the report on the abuse of children in care homes in South Yorkshire. For years, whistle-blowers had reported that vulnerable children were being beaten and punished harshly, ridiculed and taken advantage of, but no one had taken it seriously. Some of the children were disabled and couldn’t speak for themselves and say what was happening. Others were simply not listened to, and they knew they wouldn’t be so often they didn’t even try to speak up. How terrifyingly sad is that?

 

Like the abduction of those missing refugee children, it all happened in plain sight. People knew about it, but no one seemed to care enough to act. Yet again, the voices of the vulnerable didn’t count. Their stories vanished from the news as quickly as they had arrived, just as many other stories of abuse and neglect do; of vulnerable elderly people, those with mental health issues or those who are homeless. If that doesn’t make us angry, I think it should.

 

And that’s why I think this Gospel story we heard today matters so much, because in it Luke shines the spotlight on people like these, people who seem not to matter to the world around them. He says, “here, in these people, the ones the world so often discounts and ignores, is where God is at work”. It’s a bit like going to the theatre, and looking hopefully at the stage, waiting for the play to begin, only to find that the real story is happening in the darkness at the back of the stalls, or in a tatty dressing room backstage, or outside in the street.

 

The Gospel stories of Jesus’ birth and childhood are meant to foreshadow his adult life and ministry, giving us clues about what to expect, and this is a perfect example. Jesus will grow up to bring to centre stage those whom the world has side-lined, the old and the young, the disabled and poor, women and slaves and those whose lives have gone off the rails. He will point to them and say, “You want to see the Kingdom of God, God at work in the world? Here it is! Ignore these people and you will miss it. Fail to listen to them, you won’t hear what God is saying either.”

 

This week, as the news unfolds, perhaps this Gospel might encourage us to see the stories the news presents with fresh eyes, enlightened by Jesus. Whose stories are being told, and whose aren’t? What gets the column inches, the airtime, and what is brushed aside? What catches our attention, and what do we click away from in boredom or in discomfort? Who do we think matters, and who doesn’t, not really, not enough to see them as our siblings, people we care about as much as we do our family and friends.

 

“The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple”, says the prophet Malachi, but the Gospel tells us that if we want to recognise him when he comes we’ll need to have our eyes open to his presence in what is small and weak and vulnerable and despised in the world, and in ourselves, otherwise he may come and go, and we’ll have missed him, and the blessing he brings us.

 

Amen

Candlemas: Jan 29

 Candlemas 2023

 

Malachi 3.1-5, Luke 2.22-40

 

He was just one small child; how many other babies might there have been in the Temple on the day that Mary and Joseph arrived with Jesus six weeks after his birth? Probably many. My experience of the old city of Jerusalem was of a bustling, crowded place, with narrow streets packed with traders and travellers and pilgrims, and I am sure that’s how it was in the time of Jesus too, a place where people were coming and going constantly, and mostly anonymously, with families of all shapes and sizes in tow.

 

There were no angels singing, no fanfare playing for this particular child, no unearthly glow that would have signalled that he was anything out of the ordinary. His parents weren’t wealthy. We know that because the sacrifice they brought, of two pigeons, was the budget version, a concession in the law for those who couldn’t afford the standard offering of a lamb.

 

And the only two people there who acclaimed him, who recognised him as the Light of the World, were probably equally insignificant in the eyes of the Temple authorities. Simeon and Anna seem to have been regulars in the Temple, but they didn’t have a particular role, just two elderly people who hung about praying and talking. Anna had lived as a widow for many years, and according to the Gospel she never left the Temple. I wonder if she had anywhere else to go, any family to support her. Simeon is described as righteous and devout but he wasn’t a priest or a Levite, a scribe or a Pharisee. If he had been, Luke would have told us.  Whatever he had done with his life it seemed now to be drawing to a close. Simeon and Anna weren’t among the movers and shakers in the world they lived in, if they ever had been, and I’m sure there were those who thought they were well past their sell-by date, maybe a bit eccentric, religious obsessives, easy to write off. 

 

Being written off and ignored is something that many people encounter at some point in their lives. It’s easy for those with power to assume that some people are too young, too old, too poor, too disabled, from the “wrong” background, of the “wrong” nationality or the “wrong” gender to have anything to say that’s worth hearing, to have lives that are worth noticing, and the people we meet in this story are among that number. A poor, ordinary couple, a baby that hasn’t even learned to talk yet – what do they matter? And Simeon and Anna’s lives are nearly over. They are part of the past, not the future. Why should their opinions count for anything?  

 

This may be a story that’s 2000 years old, but it could also have happened yesterday. This week there have been two shocking news stories which ought to have been huge, but which, after a brief moment in the headlines seem to have sunk without trace.

 

It was announced earlier this week that nearly 200 young people have gone missing from places where they ought to have been safe over the last 18 months. Usually when one child goes missing, there are tearful press conferences with their anxious parents, and whole neighbourhoods offering to help with the search, t-shirts printed, and flyers plastered on lamp-posts.  Why the lack of interest in this case? It’s because they were unaccompanied refugees - asylum seekers under the age of 18 who had arrived in this country without parents. They’d been housed in hotels – often with no real regard for the normal safeguarding practices - but many had subsequently vanished, in many cases apparently just picked up by traffickers right outside the places they were staying. Around half have been traced, but many haven’t and have disappeared into the shadowy world of modern slavery – cannabis farms, car washes, sex work…. “So what?” say some commentators, “most of them were 16 and 17 year olds, some were probably over 18 but had lied about their age to avoid being deported”. Does that make it any better? How would we feel if these were our children, or children we knew, or even ourselves at that age?  Many were Albanians, smuggled in by people traffickers, lured by the promise of easy money and a comfortable life, but finding that the reality was very different. All teenagers do things that are naïve, trusting people they shouldn’t, making decisions they regret. Slavery is a heavy price to pay for that, and not one we would countenance for children we knew and loved. The traffickers targeted young people, vulnerable because they were poor and far from home because they thought no one would notice or miss them. And it seems they were right.  Their story was told, but then news cycle rolled on, people seemed to shrug their shoulders and turn away. One MP said, dismissively, “they shouldn’t have come here illegally then”.

 

The other story which I think should have made a much bigger impact than it has done was the report on the abuse of children in care homes in South Yorkshire. For years, whistle-blowers had reported that vulnerable children were being beaten and punished harshly, ridiculed and taken advantage of, but no one had taken it seriously. Some of the children were disabled and couldn’t speak for themselves and say what was happening. Others were simply not listened to, and they knew they wouldn’t be so often they didn’t even try to speak up. How terrifyingly sad is that?

 

Like the abduction of those missing refugee children, it all happened in plain sight. People knew about it, but no one seemed to care enough to act. Yet again, the voices of the vulnerable didn’t count. Their stories vanished from the news as quickly as they had arrived, just as many other stories of abuse and neglect do; of vulnerable elderly people, those with mental health issues or those who are homeless. If that doesn’t make us angry, I think it should.

 

And that’s why I think this Gospel story we heard today matters so much, because in it Luke shines the spotlight on people like these, people who seem not to matter to the world around them. He says, “here, in these people, the ones the world so often discounts and ignores, is where God is at work”. It’s a bit like going to the theatre, and looking hopefully at the stage, waiting for the play to begin, only to find that the real story is happening in the darkness at the back of the stalls, or in a tatty dressing room backstage, or outside in the street.

 

The Gospel stories of Jesus’ birth and childhood are meant to foreshadow his adult life and ministry, giving us clues about what to expect, and this is a perfect example. Jesus will grow up to bring to centre stage those whom the world has side-lined, the old and the young, the disabled and poor, women and slaves and those whose lives have gone off the rails. He will point to them and say, “You want to see the Kingdom of God, God at work in the world? Here it is! Ignore these people and you will miss it. Fail to listen to them, you won’t hear what God is saying either.”

 

This week, as the news unfolds, perhaps this Gospel might encourage us to see the stories the news presents with fresh eyes, enlightened by Jesus. Whose stories are being told, and whose aren’t? What gets the column inches, the airtime, and what is brushed aside? What catches our attention, and what do we click away from in boredom or in discomfort? Who do we think matters, and who doesn’t, not really, not enough to see them as our siblings, people we care about as much as we do our family and friends.

 

“The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple”, says the prophet Malachi, but the Gospel tells us that if we want to recognise him when he comes we’ll need to have our eyes open to his presence in what is small and weak and vulnerable and despised in the world, and in ourselves, otherwise he may come and go, and we’ll have missed him, and the blessing he brings us.

 

Amen

Epiphany 3: Change your mind

Isaiah 9.1-4, Matthew 4.12-23

Land of Zebulun, land of Napthali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles – the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

We heard those words, or variations on them, twice this morning. The general gist might have been obvious – they are words of good news to people who are desperate for light in a time of darkness – but some of the detail may have slid over our heads. Lands of Zebulun and   Naphtali? Galilee of the Gentiles? Where are these places? Why does it matter so much to Matthew to tell us that this story about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry is set there? 

Matthew’s first hearers would have known the answer, even if we don’t. The tribal lands of Zebulun and Naphtali were in the northern part of what we would now think of as Israel, around the sea of Galilee, but it had been a long time since any members of those ancient tribes had lived there. Seven hundred years before Jesus, the brutal Assyrian armies had swept over the north of Israel and deported the people who lived there, scattering them across their vast empire, where they simply disappeared, swallowed up into the nations they went to. They’d resettling the area with people from other countries and faiths. That’s why it was called Galilee of the Gentiles or Galilee of the Nations. Galilee just means “region”, so this was the region where you’d find people from many backgrounds, in contrast to the more exclusively Jewish areas in the south around the Jerusalem, and historically it was disputed territory, a tinder box where trouble was often brewing.

Assyrian rulers had been followed by Babylonians and then by the Greeks, and by the time of Jesus, large numbers of Roman soldiers were encamped there, living off the rich crops this fertile territory provided, whether the locals liked it or not. 

When Isaiah promises that God will set this area free, bringing light into its darkness, he is making a very subversive statement, and when Matthew applies his words to Jesus, he is being equally provocative. He’s setting us up for a story about the use and abuse of power, about kingdoms – human and divine - and how they are built and ruled. It’s no accident that his stories about the birth of Christ centre around the visit of the Magi to corrupt King Herod, and the massacre it unleashes. 

And the first stories he tells of Jesus’ adult ministry are about conflict too. John the Baptist has been arrested because of his challenge to Herod’s son, another corrupt king. Jesus had heard about this. He could have decided to give it all up there and then, but he doesn’t, but instead he wades straight in and begins to preach the same troublesome message. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near”. 

That’s the backdrop to the calling of his first disciples, Simon and Andrew, James and John. They aren’t just called away from their settled lives to the hardships of a travelling ministry. They aren’t just called away from their families and their private, self-contained lives. They are called into a battle with some mighty and very dangerous opponents. 

The safest thing, if you live under an oppressive system, is to keep your head down and hope no one notices you. But they decide to take up the company of someone who is very deliberately challenging that system. The danger to Jesus and to his followers couldn’t be clearer. When they rise up and follow Jesus they are embarking on a path which will lead many of them, like Jesus, to suffering and to death. 

So whatever made them do it? Why did they leave their comfortable lives and head off into the unknown? What did they see in Jesus, in the split second he called them, that convinced them that he was worth following? And what did he see in them? 

Let’s think about the first of those questions first. What did they see in Jesus? Matthew doesn’t give us many, but maybe the message itself can tell us. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” It doesn’t sound like a very appealing message. We don’t tend to like the idea of repentance these days - sackcloth and ashes are out of fashion. But the real meaning of the Greek word Matthew uses is “change your mind”. It’s not about making yourself miserable, but about allowing yourself to be transformed, understanding yourself and the world around you differently. 

We might be used to looking at the world with cynicism and despair. “Change your mind,” says Jesus, “learn to see the hope God has for you.” That’s repentance. Or we might feel that our lives are pointless, that we are just on an endless treadmill. “Change your mind” says Jesus, “you matter, your life has a purpose, God is at work in you”. That’s repentance too. Or we might look at the forces, political, personal, ranged against us and think, “what chance have I got against all that”. “Change your mind,” says Jesus, “God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. “ That’s what repentance looks like in practice. It’s not about despair or misery; it’s about hope. 

If that’s the case, no wonder these fishermen leapt up and followed Jesus. Things could be different. Things were going to be different.  “The kingdom of heaven has come near” he said to them. “God is here. He’s at work in the world, at work in you, if only you open your eyes to see it.” They had lived their whole lives in the darkness of oppression and injustice, but now the light had dawned. Of course, they wanted to know more. Of course, they wanted to follow. 

But if that’s what they see in Jesus, what is it that he sees in them? Why does he call these ordinary fishermen to be his followers? Again, Matthew doesn’t tell us, but I think that’s the point. It’s not who these people are that matters but who they aren’t.  They aren’t superstars. They aren’t particularly rich or well-educated. They aren’t even necessarily good or religious people. In Matthew’s version of this story, they seem to be simply the first people Jesus comes across. God doesn’t just call extraordinary people, Matthew is telling us, people with gifts and talents that single them out from the crowd. He doesn’t just call those who are especially intelligent, resourceful, strong or brave.  He calls everyone.

If God could work through the random bunch of people we find following him in the Gospels - people who get it wrong as often as they get it right - he can surely work through us too. For most of us, thank God, that calling won’t involve martyrdom, but all of us are called to do something – or maybe a succession of somethings during our lives – which will make a difference in the world in some way or other, to work with God in creating his Kingdom where we are, in our workplaces and neighbourhoods. We create that kingdom as we stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, as we love those others have no time for, as we learn to react with mercy and forgiveness, not fear and hatred, to those who hurt us. This is a ministry we’re all called to. There are no exceptions. There is no one too young, or too old, no one too insignificant, and no one too important either, to be called by God to do this work. 

All we need to do to begin is to change our minds, to learn to see ourselves and one another as God sees us, full of promise, full of hope, chosen and called. “Repent – change your mind – for the kingdom of God has come near.”

Amen 

Epiphany 3: Change your mind

Isaiah 9.1-4, Matthew 4.12-23

Land of Zebulun, land of Napthali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles – the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

We heard those words, or variations on them, twice this morning. The general gist might have been obvious – they are words of good news to people who are desperate for light in a time of darkness – but some of the detail may have slid over our heads. Lands of Zebulun and   Naphtali? Galilee of the Gentiles? Where are these places? Why does it matter so much to Matthew to tell us that this story about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry is set there? 

Matthew’s first hearers would have known the answer, even if we don’t. The tribal lands of Zebulun and Naphtali were in the northern part of what we would now think of as Israel, around the sea of Galilee, but it had been a long time since any members of those ancient tribes had lived there. Seven hundred years before Jesus, the brutal Assyrian armies had swept over the north of Israel and deported the people who lived there, scattering them across their vast empire, where they simply disappeared, swallowed up into the nations they went to. They’d resettling the area with people from other countries and faiths. That’s why it was called Galilee of the Gentiles or Galilee of the Nations. Galilee just means “region”, so this was the region where you’d find people from many backgrounds, in contrast to the more exclusively Jewish areas in the south around the Jerusalem, and historically it was disputed territory, a tinder box where trouble was often brewing.

Assyrian rulers had been followed by Babylonians and then by the Greeks, and by the time of Jesus, large numbers of Roman soldiers were encamped there, living off the rich crops this fertile territory provided, whether the locals liked it or not. 

When Isaiah promises that God will set this area free, bringing light into its darkness, he is making a very subversive statement, and when Matthew applies his words to Jesus, he is being equally provocative. He’s setting us up for a story about the use and abuse of power, about kingdoms – human and divine - and how they are built and ruled. It’s no accident that his stories about the birth of Christ centre around the visit of the Magi to corrupt King Herod, and the massacre it unleashes. 

And the first stories he tells of Jesus’ adult ministry are about conflict too. John the Baptist has been arrested because of his challenge to Herod’s son, another corrupt king. Jesus had heard about this. He could have decided to give it all up there and then, but he doesn’t, but instead he wades straight in and begins to preach the same troublesome message. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near”. 

That’s the backdrop to the calling of his first disciples, Simon and Andrew, James and John. They aren’t just called away from their settled lives to the hardships of a travelling ministry. They aren’t just called away from their families and their private, self-contained lives. They are called into a battle with some mighty and very dangerous opponents. 

The safest thing, if you live under an oppressive system, is to keep your head down and hope no one notices you. But they decide to take up the company of someone who is very deliberately challenging that system. The danger to Jesus and to his followers couldn’t be clearer. When they rise up and follow Jesus they are embarking on a path which will lead many of them, like Jesus, to suffering and to death. 

So whatever made them do it? Why did they leave their comfortable lives and head off into the unknown? What did they see in Jesus, in the split second he called them, that convinced them that he was worth following? And what did he see in them? 

Let’s think about the first of those questions first. What did they see in Jesus? Matthew doesn’t give us many, but maybe the message itself can tell us. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” It doesn’t sound like a very appealing message. We don’t tend to like the idea of repentance these days - sackcloth and ashes are out of fashion. But the real meaning of the Greek word Matthew uses is “change your mind”. It’s not about making yourself miserable, but about allowing yourself to be transformed, understanding yourself and the world around you differently. 

We might be used to looking at the world with cynicism and despair. “Change your mind,” says Jesus, “learn to see the hope God has for you.” That’s repentance. Or we might feel that our lives are pointless, that we are just on an endless treadmill. “Change your mind” says Jesus, “you matter, your life has a purpose, God is at work in you”. That’s repentance too. Or we might look at the forces, political, personal, ranged against us and think, “what chance have I got against all that”. “Change your mind,” says Jesus, “God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. “ That’s what repentance looks like in practice. It’s not about despair or misery; it’s about hope. 

If that’s the case, no wonder these fishermen leapt up and followed Jesus. Things could be different. Things were going to be different.  “The kingdom of heaven has come near” he said to them. “God is here. He’s at work in the world, at work in you, if only you open your eyes to see it.” They had lived their whole lives in the darkness of oppression and injustice, but now the light had dawned. Of course, they wanted to know more. Of course, they wanted to follow. 

But if that’s what they see in Jesus, what is it that he sees in them? Why does he call these ordinary fishermen to be his followers? Again, Matthew doesn’t tell us, but I think that’s the point. It’s not who these people are that matters but who they aren’t.  They aren’t superstars. They aren’t particularly rich or well-educated. They aren’t even necessarily good or religious people. In Matthew’s version of this story, they seem to be simply the first people Jesus comes across. God doesn’t just call extraordinary people, Matthew is telling us, people with gifts and talents that single them out from the crowd. He doesn’t just call those who are especially intelligent, resourceful, strong or brave.  He calls everyone.

If God could work through the random bunch of people we find following him in the Gospels - people who get it wrong as often as they get it right - he can surely work through us too. For most of us, thank God, that calling won’t involve martyrdom, but all of us are called to do something – or maybe a succession of somethings during our lives – which will make a difference in the world in some way or other, to work with God in creating his Kingdom where we are, in our workplaces and neighbourhoods. We create that kingdom as we stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, as we love those others have no time for, as we learn to react with mercy and forgiveness, not fear and hatred, to those who hurt us. This is a ministry we’re all called to. There are no exceptions. There is no one too young, or too old, no one too insignificant, and no one too important either, to be called by God to do this work. 

All we need to do to begin is to change our minds, to learn to see ourselves and one another as God sees us, full of promise, full of hope, chosen and called. “Repent – change your mind – for the kingdom of God has come near.”

Amen 

Epiphany Sunday 2023

 

Epiphany Sunday 2023

 

Eph 3.1-12. Matt 2.1-12

 

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi, the Wise Men, arrive in Bethlehem with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Epiphany is really on January 6, of course, but we celebrate it on the nearest Sunday. It’s the start of a whole season – Epiphanytide - when we take time to think about what the birth of that baby in Bethlehem means to us. It lasts right through until Candlemas on February 2, which is why the crib in church, and in my home, stays up until then, as we ponder this story of the child in the manger, God with us in vulnerability and littleness.

 

It’s good that we give this story time. Anyone who has had a baby themselves, or been close to new parents and children, will know that the birth isn’t the end of the story. Of course not. It’s just the beginning. However well prepared parents think they are for the new arrival, they don’t begin to know what their child will be like, and how he or she will change them until they arrive, and even then it’s a gradual process, as that child’s unique personality starts to reveal itself.

 

The word Epiphany means “revelation” - literally “shining out” - and I think that’s what happens when any child comes into the world. They gradually reveal themselves as they grow up. Their light begins to shine on those around them.

 

If it is true for all of us, it was certainly true of Jesus, and the stories we hear during Epiphanytide explore how people gradually came to understand who he was, and what he meant to them.   

 

Epiphanytide begins with the “shining out” of a new star in the sky. It catches the attention of the Magi – philosophers and astrologers probably from Babylon. But what does it mean? For them, the answer was obvious. It was a common ancient belief that a significant birth – a king, a leader - would be signalled by the appearance of a star.  So they set off in its general direction.  

 

But that’s where the story gets complicated, because despite the apparent clarity of this revelation – a stonking great star in the sky - the Magi struggle to find the child. They head for Jerusalem, and for Herod’s palace. It’s a disastrous decision, not at all wise. Herod was a megalomaniac, paranoid dictator, who’d had quite a few of his own family killed, so he was hardly going to take kindly to people suggesting that a new king had been born. Their visit triggered the massacre of the children in Bethlehem. Why did they get it so wrong? Well, to be fair, the star wasn’t very specific. It didn’t go before them in the first part of the story. It just indicated the general direction. But more to the point, they assumed a king would be born in a palace, that God would be at work, first and foremost, among the rich and powerful, the movers and shakers of the world as it was. They don’t expect to find God in an ordinary home, among ordinary people.

 

When they do find the Christ child, in a back street in Bethlehem, it changes them completely. They go home, “by another road”, not just literally, to avoid Herod, but spiritually too, different people to those they were when they set out.

 

It's an extraordinary story, and there’s no evidence that we are meant to take it as literal history, and we usually end up heading down lots of blind alleys if we do – what did Mary and Joseph do with the gold, frankincense and myrrh? Was the star a comet? It doesn’t fit with Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth, either, with shepherds, and a manger and “no room at the inn”, but that doesn’t seem to have bothered those who drew together the books of the Bible as we now have them. They knew that the real importance of these stories was as a sort of overture, a prologue, introducing the themes of Jesus’ adult ministry, hinting at the person Jesus would grow up to be.

 

Matthew writes about the visit of Gentile Magi – foreigners from far away – because he knew that Jesus had grown up to welcome people from all sorts of backgrounds later. He emphasized his ordinariness because he knew that the adult Jesus hadn’t sought status or the affirmation of the rich and powerful. He was no more to be found in a palace as a grown man than he had been as a baby.

 

This story invites us to ponder where we are looking for Jesus today, where we expect to find God at work. Do we expect to find him only, or mainly, in a church building? Do we expect to find him only in lives which are neat and tidy, respectable and sorted out? Do we expect to find him only in times when all is well, or can we imagine he might be sitting with us in the darkness? Do we expect to find him somewhere else, rather than where we are? When Covid struck two years ago, and we couldn’t meet together in the church building, although it was a terrible time, it also meant that many people began to reimagine their homes, and the other places they spent their time, in new ways, as places where they could meet God, as they joined in virtual worship, or prayed and reflected where they happened to be. Maybe you’re listening to this worship podcast now at home, or on the way to work, or while walking the dog. In doing so, you’re proclaiming that wherever you happen to be at this moment is holy ground. “The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it” says Psalm 24. It’s not a “second best” to pray at home. In fact, if we want a faith that’s firmly rooted and can sustain us through the tough times, we need one which has literally “come home” to us, which is where we are, not dependent on being in a special place.

 

That’s why, at Seal Church, we practice the ancient Epiphany tradition, of blessing chalk. It’s common across Northern Europe, but happily developing here in the UK too. The chalk is used to mark the doorways of churches and – most importantly – of homes, with the numbers of the year – 2023 – and the letters C, M and B. You can pick up some chalk from the church porch, or use some of your own. The letters, depending on your viewpoint, either stand for Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, the traditional names of the Magi, or for the Latin words “Christus Mansionem Benedicat” – Christ bless this house. Either way it is a statement of faith that the places over which it is chalked will be places where God is, where love is, where there is a welcome for wandering wise men and women, or foolish ones for that matter.

 

It's a bold proclamation, and a scary one. Are we telling the truth? Do we believe that God could be at work in us, that we can find him right where we are, that his light can “shine out” in our lives? That’s the challenge of Epiphany. Like the Magi, we may not always know where we are going, or what we are doing, but in the end, if our eyes and our hearts are open to God, we will find him, and be welcomed. Amen

Epiphany Sunday 2023

 

Epiphany Sunday 2023

 

Eph 3.1-12. Matt 2.1-12

 

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi, the Wise Men, arrive in Bethlehem with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Epiphany is really on January 6, of course, but we celebrate it on the nearest Sunday. It’s the start of a whole season – Epiphanytide - when we take time to think about what the birth of that baby in Bethlehem means to us. It lasts right through until Candlemas on February 2, which is why the crib in church, and in my home, stays up until then, as we ponder this story of the child in the manger, God with us in vulnerability and littleness.

 

It’s good that we give this story time. Anyone who has had a baby themselves, or been close to new parents and children, will know that the birth isn’t the end of the story. Of course not. It’s just the beginning. However well prepared parents think they are for the new arrival, they don’t begin to know what their child will be like, and how he or she will change them until they arrive, and even then it’s a gradual process, as that child’s unique personality starts to reveal itself.

 

The word Epiphany means “revelation” - literally “shining out” - and I think that’s what happens when any child comes into the world. They gradually reveal themselves as they grow up. Their light begins to shine on those around them.

 

If it is true for all of us, it was certainly true of Jesus, and the stories we hear during Epiphanytide explore how people gradually came to understand who he was, and what he meant to them.   

 

Epiphanytide begins with the “shining out” of a new star in the sky. It catches the attention of the Magi – philosophers and astrologers probably from Babylon. But what does it mean? For them, the answer was obvious. It was a common ancient belief that a significant birth – a king, a leader - would be signalled by the appearance of a star.  So they set off in its general direction.  

 

But that’s where the story gets complicated, because despite the apparent clarity of this revelation – a stonking great star in the sky - the Magi struggle to find the child. They head for Jerusalem, and for Herod’s palace. It’s a disastrous decision, not at all wise. Herod was a megalomaniac, paranoid dictator, who’d had quite a few of his own family killed, so he was hardly going to take kindly to people suggesting that a new king had been born. Their visit triggered the massacre of the children in Bethlehem. Why did they get it so wrong? Well, to be fair, the star wasn’t very specific. It didn’t go before them in the first part of the story. It just indicated the general direction. But more to the point, they assumed a king would be born in a palace, that God would be at work, first and foremost, among the rich and powerful, the movers and shakers of the world as it was. They don’t expect to find God in an ordinary home, among ordinary people.

 

When they do find the Christ child, in a back street in Bethlehem, it changes them completely. They go home, “by another road”, not just literally, to avoid Herod, but spiritually too, different people to those they were when they set out.

 

It's an extraordinary story, and there’s no evidence that we are meant to take it as literal history, and we usually end up heading down lots of blind alleys if we do – what did Mary and Joseph do with the gold, frankincense and myrrh? Was the star a comet? It doesn’t fit with Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth, either, with shepherds, and a manger and “no room at the inn”, but that doesn’t seem to have bothered those who drew together the books of the Bible as we now have them. They knew that the real importance of these stories was as a sort of overture, a prologue, introducing the themes of Jesus’ adult ministry, hinting at the person Jesus would grow up to be.

 

Matthew writes about the visit of Gentile Magi – foreigners from far away – because he knew that Jesus had grown up to welcome people from all sorts of backgrounds later. He emphasized his ordinariness because he knew that the adult Jesus hadn’t sought status or the affirmation of the rich and powerful. He was no more to be found in a palace as a grown man than he had been as a baby.

 

This story invites us to ponder where we are looking for Jesus today, where we expect to find God at work. Do we expect to find him only, or mainly, in a church building? Do we expect to find him only in lives which are neat and tidy, respectable and sorted out? Do we expect to find him only in times when all is well, or can we imagine he might be sitting with us in the darkness? Do we expect to find him somewhere else, rather than where we are? When Covid struck two years ago, and we couldn’t meet together in the church building, although it was a terrible time, it also meant that many people began to reimagine their homes, and the other places they spent their time, in new ways, as places where they could meet God, as they joined in virtual worship, or prayed and reflected where they happened to be. Maybe you’re listening to this worship podcast now at home, or on the way to work, or while walking the dog. In doing so, you’re proclaiming that wherever you happen to be at this moment is holy ground. “The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it” says Psalm 24. It’s not a “second best” to pray at home. In fact, if we want a faith that’s firmly rooted and can sustain us through the tough times, we need one which has literally “come home” to us, which is where we are, not dependent on being in a special place.

 

That’s why, at Seal Church, we practice the ancient Epiphany tradition, of blessing chalk. It’s common across Northern Europe, but happily developing here in the UK too. The chalk is used to mark the doorways of churches and – most importantly – of homes, with the numbers of the year – 2023 – and the letters C, M and B. You can pick up some chalk from the church porch, or use some of your own. The letters, depending on your viewpoint, either stand for Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, the traditional names of the Magi, or for the Latin words “Christus Mansionem Benedicat” – Christ bless this house. Either way it is a statement of faith that the places over which it is chalked will be places where God is, where love is, where there is a welcome for wandering wise men and women, or foolish ones for that matter.

 

It's a bold proclamation, and a scary one. Are we telling the truth? Do we believe that God could be at work in us, that we can find him right where we are, that his light can “shine out” in our lives? That’s the challenge of Epiphany. Like the Magi, we may not always know where we are going, or what we are doing, but in the end, if our eyes and our hearts are open to God, we will find him, and be welcomed. Amen